


My Fingers Drip With Myrrh

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a nasty buzzing feeling in his blood and his suit fits too well and the jacket is too heavy and his shirt is made of a silk/cotton blend that is <i>absolutely fucking grating on his every nerve.</i></p><p>Sherlock curls up in the back of the cab. John grimaces.</p><p>“Soon, love. Soon.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fingers Drip With Myrrh

**Author's Note:**

> My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening; my heart began to pound for him. I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles of the bolt. —Song of Solomon 5:4-5
> 
> _yesssss the bible's got porn oh yeah bet you didn't even know that_
> 
> Chinese translation available [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/973640)

Sherlock curls up on his side and pulls the sheets up under his chin. “Tired,” he mumbles.

John sniffs, then groans. “Oh, merciful Lord, of course. Did you time this? Plan it somehow?”

Sherlock frowns. Then he considers the evidence — increased appetite, mood swings, exhaustion—and is _furious_ with himself for being so damned slow.

“Because if anyone could time their heat to get them out of their brother’s wedding, it would _absolutely_ be you. You realize Mycroft will kill you. With poison and knives, he will kill you.”

“You’ll kill him first.”

“I’m not entirely sure you’re backing the right man there.”

Sherlock flaps a dismissive hand. “Not if it’s just you and Mycroft. I’m perfectly certain you could take him in single, hand-to-hand combat.” He pauses to ponder the problem. “Mm, might lose the use of a hand.”

John rolls his eyes, but looks flattered. “Anyways, we’ll skip out of the reception early.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “We’re not still going!”

“Yes, we’re still going! It’s your brother’s wedding! You’re his best man!” He kisses Sherlock’s forehead in a feeble attempt to sooth. “You’ll only be in early heat at most. Wear a patch, take something, and nobody’s the wiser.”

“Mycroft will be,” Sherlock growls.

“Well...yeah. Look, it’ll be an hour, hour and a half at the most.”

Sherlock makes a scoffing noise. It does not indicate agreement.

“Okay, then. I’ll put it this way: if you don’t go, I’ll leave you to bugger yourself on a hairbrush all week while I go for a lovely holiday to Harry’s floor.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Sherlock groans and turns onto his other side with a great deal of excessive petulant thrashing. “This is barbarous.”

John hums in agreement.

“I’ll be utterly miserable.”

John kisses the back of his neck. “I know, love. I’m sorry. You can take something before to take the edge—”

“I’m a _chemist,_ John, I _know_ what—”

“I know, I know, I was just suggesting—”

“—had to do it before Mycroft’s _stupid—”_

“Yes, yes, I get it!”

Sherlock curls further in on himself. “Tired,” he mutters again.

John rubs his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Tickles. Feels cozy. Affectionate. “I know, love. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t want to go to Mycroft’s wedding.”

“You have never wanted to go to Mycroft’s wedding, not even when Mycroft’s wedding was but a twinkle in Greg’s eye. Go to sleep.”

“Want to stay in and fuck myself on your cock,” Sherlock says, with a definitive terminal “K” sound. He relishes the small, quick inhalation he feels against the back of his neck.

“After.” John’s hand wanders to the back of Sherlock’s thigh and slides slyly up to cup a handful of pert, round arse. “You can ride me til I knot so hard I cry.”

The thought makes Sherlock’s face warm. He files it away for later testing. Experiments should be done. Repeated trials. Rigorous scientific standards.

“Tired.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

\---

Sherlock wakes up hard and uncomfortably damp.

It’s still early, so it’s more of a vague nuisance than the all-encompassing lust it will become. He squeezes his thighs together and whines. Behind him, John nestles in close to his back and presses his nose to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock arches into him with a pleased little hum.

“Get the patch before I have to fuck you through the floor,” John says, hoarse and half-asleep.

Sherlock very intentionally pushes his hips back into John. The answering hardness and growl are a small victory, but then John rolls away, out of the bed and to his feet. Sherlock moans and snakes a hand into the front of his pyjamas to squeeze his cock. He gets in a few slow strokes, but then—

“Uh-uh,” John says, peeling the backing off a hormone patch and slapping it onto Sherlock’s exposed shoulder blade.

“Nooo,” Sherlock groans.

“It’s this,” says John, sticking on a patch of his own, “or you start a small riot at the wedding.”

“Or we _don’t go.”_

“Up. Take your suppressant and a shower.”

John hauls Sherlock to his feet. As he’s manhandling him into the bathroom, he stops for one long, scorching kiss before breaking away with a wince.

_“God_ that’s good.”

Sherlock’s prick throbs. He tries to kiss John again, but John ducks away and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Take your suppressant.”

Sherlock considers throwing a small fit about John not trusting him to take the pill unsupervised, but concedes that in this case John’s suspicions are entirely justified. He pops the pill from its blister pack, tosses it back and dry-swallows it with a furious scowl. John stands on his toes and pecks him on the lips again, smiling ruefully.

“It should wear off a little ways into the reception. Let me know when you’re feeling it and we’ll leave, okay?”

Sherlock nods. His throat feels uncomfortably tight, and it’s not just the little pink pill.

John takes his face in both hands and kisses him sweetly on the lips. Sherlock feels him shiver against his front.

“God, I can taste it on you,” he whispers. “Jesus. Come on, we’d better get dressed.”

\---

Sherlock is no longer rock-hard _or_ leaking, and he’s wearing briefs with an absorbent seat and discreet padding just in case. All the same, there’s still a nasty buzzing feeling in his blood and his suit fits too well and the jacket is too heavy and his shirt is made of a silk/cotton blend that is _absolutely fucking grating on his every nerve._

He curls up in the back of the cab. John grimaces.

“Soon, love. Soon.”

\---

Mycroft can tell, the bastard.

As soon as he laid eyes on Sherlock, he sighs heavily. “Do make sure you take a second dose before the reception,” he says. “You know what your tolerance is like.”

“Sod your reception,” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft looks pained. “Well, it does make the seating arrangements significantly less problematic.” He swans off someplace to do something pointless with his suit or the caterer or something else Sherlock _literally could not care less about_.

John steps round to Sherlock’s front, takes his face in his hands and guides him into eye contact. “Hey,” he says gently. “How are you doing?”

Sherlock tips his forehead into John’s, shuts his eyes and grimaces. The honest answer— _I feel like wrapping myself around you and bringing you into me until it feels like we’re one person—_ will do the situation no favors, and will probably only exacerbate his discomfort. So he just says, “Cold,” because he knows that will make John touch him more. Sure enough, the hands on his face smooth down his neck and shoulders, then over his chest. Sherlock blows out a shaky breath.

John kisses him once, then again, longer and more sweetly. He breaks off with a wince. “Just a couple hours, yeah?” he says, petting Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock whines and kisses him again. John groans into his mouth, catches his arse in both hands and squeezes. Sherlock moans.

“Yes,” John hisses, and risks palming at Sherlock’s prick. He's very, very hard. He was hard almost immediately.

_“John!”_

Sherlock gasps at the sudden burst of heat and sensation. He clutches at John’s shoulders for support and rocks in. _God, yes, THAT, more, please—_

“Jesus—fucking—” John pulls away with a bitter laugh, but keeps hold of Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock, likewise, doesn’t let go of John’s shoulders. John shakes his head. “We—really can’t skip your brother’s wedding to knot in his dressing room.”

“Can we skip it to knot in our bedroom?” Sherlock says, pitching his voice dark and low.

John shivers. “Jesus. Don’t think I don’t want to.”

Sherlock nuzzles at the side of John’s face. “Then _let’s.”_

John smiles ruefully. “Later.” He squeezes Sherlock’s waist one last time before stepping back and stuffing his hands firmly into his pockets. Sherlock tucks his into his armpits. Grabbing is rude. “I’m gonna go help Greg. See you during the ceremony?”

Even in his present state, Sherlock is averse to coddling. He glares. “I _am_ also _in_ the wedding, _obviously_ you’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah.” John rolls his eyes and smiles. “See you.”

Sherlock grits his teeth against the instinctive whine as the door clicks shut.

\---

The ceremony takes an hour, and then there’s a solid half-hour of pictures, and then the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the reception, and Sherlock is _absolutely one-hundred percent sure he is going to die_ if he doesn’t get something up him soon. He’s already starting to feel distinctly damp.

Nearly an hour and a half into the reception, Sherlock sees his opening. John excuses himself to use the facilities, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to corner him in an out-of-the-way corridor and cage him against the wall.

He bites a hard kiss into John’s mouth. It’s hot and deep and slow and far too much too fast. “We need to _leave.”_

John breathes in and swallows hard. _“Fuck._ It’s—the patch is wearing off.”

“The suppressant wore off a quarter of an hour ago,” Sherlock growls. “Get me _out,_ John.”

He’s trying to sound demanding, but his voice isn’t entirely cooperating. There’s a high note to it that implies petulance. Pleading, even. Sherlock doesn't _plead_.

“Fucking _Christ,”_ John says. “Okay, okay, let me just—make our excuses—”

“Text them,” Sherlock growls, leaning in close and catching the curve of John’s ear between his lips. John goes very still and quiet. “They’ll understand. Come _on.”_

It strikes Sherlock that they are intolerably far from their flat. He nearly cries in despair, but then John, wonderful John, seems to intuit his dilemma and immediately design a solution.

“Come on,” he says, pushing Sherlock off and hauling them both off towards the doors. “Cab.”

Sherlock keeps a hand on John’s elbow while he waves down a cab. Once safely inside, he curls up on his side and rests his head in John’s lap, nuzzling like a cat.

There’s a sick sort of buzzing feeling in Sherlock’s stomach, and it takes him a moment to recognize it for what it is. By the time he does, he’s already shaking and muffling a moan into John’s leg. _Heat paroxysms._ Later they will contract around John’s cock as he fucks Sherlock and eventually tighten on his knot and hold him inside for up to a quarter of an hour. Now, they only push out more of the slick fluid that’s saturating Sherlock’s pants and make his cock so hard and sensitive he could  _weep_.

John strokes at the back of Sherlock’s neck, whispering soothing things. His hand is trembling and Sherlock can feel him hard against his cheek. He wants to turn his head and mouth at his cock until John loses control and fucks him _right here,_ but there isn’t the _space,_ this isn’t the time and place, he isn’t _allowed—_  


“Almost there,” John murmurs.

“Alright back there?” the cabbie asks, eyeing them in the mirror.

“Yeah,” says John. “My mate’s feeling a bit under the weather.” _Back off, he’s mine_. Sherlock makes a pleased little hum and nuzzles again.

The cabbie does not take the hint. Perhaps the patch has entirely worn off, because the cabbie definitely appears to be affected. “Lovely thing like you shouldn’t be out and about at a time like this,” he says, licking his lips. _Licking his lips!_ For God’s sake!

John growls.

Actually _growls_ , low and rumbling in his chest, and Sherlock has to bite his fist to keep from moaning. John pets his hair, scratching his fingers through it and ruffling the curls. Sherlock pants into the knuckles clenched between his teeth.

They have no further trouble from the cabbie.

\---

The door doesn’t latch when Sherlock pushes it shut behind him. He doesn’t care enough to try again. He fists his hands in John’s shirtfront, yanks him forward and hauls him into a kiss. Then the door _does_ latch shut, because John is pushing Sherlock into it and pinning him to the door with his hips. A tremor snakes through Sherlock’s groin at the exact same moment, and he throws his head back with a shocked cry.

_“Jesus,_ would take you on the fucking _stairs,”_ John snarls, and bites at the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“John—I—oh, God. _Yes.”_

John soothes the spot he’s bitten with his lips and tongue. “Upstairs. Bedroom,” he gets out.

_“Yes.”_

It’s miraculous that they manage the stairs without anyone tripping. Sherlock stumbles once or twice, but John catches him by the lapels and all was fine. By the time they reach their parlor, they’ve mutually decided clothes are excess to requirements, and are divesting themselves of such.

“Buggering—fucking— _cummerbunds,”_ Sherlock snaps, finally giving up and yanking John’s off with an alarming ripping sound.

John laughs. “Your brother paid the rental fee on that, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock kisses him again.

They’ve reached the bed. With a groan of relief, Sherlock steps out of his pants and collapses onto the mattress. John grins as he shucks the rest of his morning suit.

“Better now?”

Sherlock spreads his legs wide and wraps his hand around the base of his prick. “Almost,” he says breathily, drawing one leg up and letting his other hand creep round the back of his thigh, cupping one arse cheek, pulling it aside and—

“Oh no you don’t, I want the honors,” John says in a rush. He climbs onto the bed, pulls Sherlock’s hands away and sets them firmly on his stomach.

Sherlock grimaces and curls his fingers into fists. _“John,”_ he says, and doesn’t say _“please.”_

John presses Sherlock’s legs further apart, dispenses with the preamble and sinks a finger into Sherlock’s wet hole.

Immediately Sherlock moans in instinctive relief even as his hamstrings pull tight with heightened arousal. _“Yes._ More, you know I can take it.”

“I—Jesus,” John snarls. He pulls out, works in a second fingertip, and pushes back in.

Sherlock’s hips squirm down. He fists his hands in the sheets and lets his eyes drift shut. He inhales, suspends the breath, and exhales. “Oh,” he sighs. “Yes, like that.”

He lets himself float on the low tide of sensation. It’s novel, being so easily satisfied during a heat, if not quite sated. Typically Sherlock tries to forgo foreplay altogether if he can coax John into it. Anything to get that first knotting out of the way and silence the starving desperation in his guts. But there has been so much buildup to even this simple act that it feels like the culmination of much more.

Sherlock relaxes his hands, turns his head and rubs the side of his face against the pillow. There they are, the heightened senses of full heat. He moans again and rubs a hand over his chest. The touch and pressure are exquisite. He catches a nipple between his first two fingers and pinches absently just as John hooks his fingers up. Sherlock bucks and gasps. His stomach tightens and another spasm shakes through his core. He pants through it, feeling the heat rise in his face and lubrication sluicing between his cheeks.

“Fucking _Christ,_ Sherlock.”

Something warm and decidedly greedy slides into Sherlock’s belly at the husky tone in John’s voice. He opens his eyes and immediately has to look away again with a high whine.

John is still kneeling between his legs, two fingers inside of him. John’s other hand is at his cock, jutting out between his thighs and leaking nearly as badly as Sherlock is. Judging by his gasps and position of his hand, he’s squeezing an almost fully-engorged knot.

Sherlock hooks his feet around the backs of John’s calves. “John,” he says in a voice entirely too labored to be his own. “I—I really think—”

“Yeah,” John says shakily, and withdraws his fingers.

Sherlock’s limbs are trembling, and despite how deeply he’s breathing he can’t seem to stop feeling dizzy. He shuts his eyes and opens his legs. John crawls in closer, bending over Sherlock, resting his weight on an elbow by Sherlock’s arm and with the other, guiding the head of his cock just inside Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock chokes on an inhalation. “Oh, God. John.”

John grits his teeth. “Jesus, this is going to last about ten seconds.”

Sherlock is just thinking _no, no, don’t you dare, I want you inside me for days,_ but then John is slowly pushing in, and the onward press of his cock obliterates whatever thoughts Sherlock had. He clutches John’s shoulders and keens.

_“Fuck,_ you are _so_ fucking—breathe, Sherlock, I— _Christ_ but you’re tight—I’m—just a bit more—”

John’s trying to soothe, but it’s obvious he’s losing presence of mind. Sherlock pulls his head down and kisses him. Even kissing he’s still making noise, but— _oh—_ it’s not just John making that noise after all, and he bites John’s lip to try and shut himself up. Then he feels the abrupt bulge of John’s swollen knot just outside him, and he’s more than just “making noise.” He breaks the connection of their mouths to let out a sob. How has he ever fit that inside him before? It seems impossible. Did it seem impossible the other times? He can’t remember. Regardless, he needs it. He can do the impossible, he _can_. _Has_ to.

“Easy,” John gasps, pressing their damp foreheads together. “You’re alright, I’m going to—”

_“God,_ John, _please,”_ Sherlock blurts out. “Please, _please,_ I need you to—”

John pushes forward—Sherlock’s spine bows, he cries out and is awash with such an immediate and powerful surge of pleasure-pain that for a moment he wonders if he’s coming—and then settles.

There. That’s everything.

Sherlock tries to force himself to breathe slowly and deeply, to adjust to the decimating fullness inside of him. John pets clumsily at his hair.

“You okay, love?” he says.

“Mm.” Sherlock nods and catches his lower lip in his teeth. “’m fine.”

John kisses him and Sherlock tries to kiss back with all the pathos simmering in his chest.

“Move?” he says, when he’s gotten his wits mostly back. He’s still lightheaded, swimming in the heat and hormones.

John’s breath catches. He nods, and moves.

His knot widens Sherlock again on the way out and the outward slide of his shaft that follows is a distressing feeling of loss. But it’s made up for in the rush of savage sensation when John thrusts back in, with only a slight hitch before his knot notches in. Sherlock throws his head back with a cry.

“Yes! _God,_ yes, _again!”_

“Jesus, you’re fucking beautiful,” John snarls, and does it again, and again, and again.

Sherlock remembers saying earlier that he wanted to ride him, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will have to happen later. There’s no way his legs are capable of anything so practical as supporting weight just now. He tosses his head restlessly from side to side and throws his arms around John’s back. When he digs his nails into the flesh over John’s scapulae, he is rewarded with a ground-out curse and a string of faster, harder thrusts that leave him practically wailing. His mouth spills out a litany of _“yes John yes please more,”_ and his legs latch around John’s waist. That deepens the angle of penetration, allowing the tip of John’s cock to drive in that precious extra inch and directly into Sherlock’s sweet spot.

“God,” John spits at Sherlock’s sudden full-body undulation, and tries to replicate the thrust. He misses the first time, but then just as Sherlock feels the spasm building in his stomach he manages it again, and Sherlock’s gasp of pleasure and shout of _“John”_ are long and high and fucking _ecstatic_.

He’s so close now, _so_ close he can hardly believe he’s not coming already. He focuses on the stickiness of the lubrication between his thighs, on John’s mouth at his neck and teeth closing around his throat, on the compact, muscular body between his legs as devoted to Sherlock’s pleasure as its own.

He squeezes John’s shoulder. “John,” he chokes out, by way of warning.

John, miraculously, understands. He thrusts in hard once, twice, three times.

Sherlock feels his orgasm first in his chest, swelling in his ribcage like a balloon before bursting outwards, sharp shocks in his limbs and cock and guts, his whole body seeming to pulse in concert as his arse contracts around John’s knot, enclosing him and locking them together. Through the haze, Sherlock hears John give a shout and then feels the steady, rhythmic throb of John’s orgasm inside him. He gasps, shudders, and comes again. This time it’s smaller, more contained, but no less beautiful.

Sherlock lets his breath out. One by one, he relaxes.

John sags on top of him. “Turn over?” he says breathlessly.

“Mm. Moment.”

He takes another minute or so to gather his mental and motor faculties, then nods. They manage to roll over in unison with a minimum of tugging and wincing. John relaxes with a sigh. Sherlock, now on top, takes the opportunity to stroke his hands down John’s flanks. John shivers. His eyes roll back, he clutches Sherlock’s hips, and suddenly there’s another fluttering in Sherlock’s guts as John comes again. Sherlock’s eyes soften and he groans in sympathetic pleasure.

“Oh, that’s good,” John sighs. “God, you’re so— _fucking—”_

Sherlock tugs gently at his cock and parts his lips with a little _“oh”_ of pleasure. John relaxes just as Sherlock is coiling tighter, tighter, and finally bursting into a third long, trembling orgasm like fireworks behind his eyelids.

“Jesus, fucking gorgeous,” John murmurs as Sherlock comes down.

Sherlock settles on top of John and mouths lazy kisses at his flushed skin. He bites at John’s jawline, gnaws at a collarbone, sucks an earlobe between his teeth. John  lets his hands roam, down shoulders and spine and up ribs, over stomach and chest and nipples.

Gradually, the drowsy feeling in Sherlock’s chest dissipates, then fades into something different, something hazy and warm and intoxicating. His toes curl in and he leans forward to smear his lips and teeth and tongue down the side of John’s neck. John groans, deep in his chest, and thrusts up a little.

“Think I could go another round,” he says huskily. “You ready?”

“Mm.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and tentatively tries to slide up John’s cock. John’s knot slips wetly free. Sherlock whimpers. His gut tightens. Already he misses the feeling of enclosure, the joyous obliteration of knotting. He eases back down with an aching groan and rocks back and forth on the knot for a moment. John gasps and clutches at Sherlock’s hips. He’s gone sweaty around the hairline. Sherlock grins open-mouthed and works himself up and back down again, then again, and again.

John is powerless beneath him. The most he can do is hold Sherlock and try to buck up, chasing the slim, lithe body above him.

“Jesus,” he gasps. “Oh, Jesus. Sherlock. _Sherlock.”_

Sherlock fucks himself faster, panting out short breaths. John’s cock feels like it’s plumbing the deepest depths of him. It glances off something inside that makes him shout—new spot, didn't know about that one, must remember for—oh,  _oh,_ John. He leans forward, sets his weight on one hand and with the other, starts tugging at his prick.

John’s head is rolling from side to side like he’s utterly lost control of his body. “Fucking _Christ,”_ he moans.

Sherlock’s thighs are burning, but he can’t even consider stopping, not when he’s this close. He sinks his nails into the side of John’s ribcage. John twists and hisses. Sherlock’s head lolls back and he drops himself down onto John’s cock _hard_.

“So close,” he’s panting, “so fucking close—John—”

“Fuck— _Sherlock—_ please!”

He drops down again, his entire body going into one brutal thrust, and feels his hamstrings give out just as his orgasm starts to quiver through his insides. He clutches at John and whines and shakes through it, feeling John’s shout and pulsing cock from his eyeballs to his toes.

Sherlock lets out a long sigh and sinks down, savoring the sweet tingling of a good knotting. He feels entirely, deliciously sated for the time being. It’ll pass soon enough, but for the moment he’s alright.

“And to think,” he says, “we could’ve been doing this for _hours.”_

John swats at Sherlock’s flank. Sherlock bites retributively at John’s shoulder. John hisses, but doesn’t fight back. His eyes are drifting shut and he looks decidedly like he’s about to fall asleep. Typical.

“‘m sorry you had to be at Mycroft’s wedding,” John murmurs. “I know you hate weddings.”

Sherlock settles down on top of him. “Not all weddings.”

“Mm.”

“Ours, for instance, will be most exceptional, I’m sure.”

“Mm, yes.”

Sherlock smirks.

John’s eyes fly open.

_“What the HELL did you just say?”_


End file.
